Arm In Arm
by Bedlams Bard
Summary: TR fic. If Section thought they were dead they wouldn't come looking.


**Title: ** Arm in Arm

**Fandom:** La Femme Nikita

**Characters:** Paul/Madeline

**Prompt:** #35 _another orphaned field, another broken shield; another voice that whispers: escape, escape, escape._

**Word Count: **2,246

**Rating:** PG-13

**Summary: **_If Section thought they were dead they wouldn't come looking._

**Author's Note:** This particular story holds no spoilers and takes place back in the day before Paul became Operations.

-- --

He lands with a thud and a grunt as the air is knocked out of him. He shelters his head in the cradle of his arm as the blast rolls over him in a wave of heat. When the ringing in his ears lessens and the scorching heat dies down he pushes himself up onto his feet and surveys the devastation. The warehouse is gone; enveloped in gouts of flame and blasted debris. He doesn't spare the time to think about the fact that if he'd been just seconds slower he would have been caught in it. Too many brushes with death and he's become blasé about the whole thing.

Instead he scouts quickly around what used to be the perimeter of the building to see if anyone else made it out alive. He doesn't call out names, knows the futility of hope, but toes aside the rubble and searches all the same. There's not a doubt in his mind that the rest of his team is dead. That he's led them to their deaths in vain. He's two thirds of the way around when he sees the figure stumble out of the heat haze towards him. It's only then that he realises he's only got half a clip left. He raises his gun knowing that every shot has to count and squints past the glow of the fires.

"Paul!"

He lowers the Beretta a fraction, his breath catching in the back of his throat as hope flares for the first time. "Madeline?"

"What took you so long?"

The joke is forced, the pain in her voice slamming into him like a physical blow as he rushes forward to meet her. "Here, let me help you," he says as he wraps an arm around her waist to take some of her weight, "We need to get out of here now."

"What about the others?" she asks and he knows that she must really be hurting if she's accepting his help without a fight.

"If they can make it they will," Paul answers and the tone he uses quells any further debate. What he doesn't tell her is that he hadn't been looking for anyone else, not really. "Right now, we need to get away from here and find some civilisation. Communications are down and we need to make contact."

She's limping badly as he leads her away from the ruins of the terrorist stockpile and neither of them mentions the relief they feel. Neither of them mentions the fear that had been gnawing inside of them. The terror. Not for themselves but for each other. They stagger on, leaning against each other for support, and try to ignore the destruction left in their wake.

-- --

When they reach the safety of the tree line they stop and he lets her rest. She sits with her back to the tree, her eyes sliding closed as she rolls her shoulders to ease the tension there. His movements are economical and sure, little more than muscle reflex, as he slices open the leg of her trousers and treats the wound. It's an ugly burn but nothing too serious. She was lucky. Or maybe just good.

When he's finished he looks up and their eyes meet. There's no fireworks, no all-encompassing consuming passion, no expression of tender love. His heart doesn't skip a beat or fly out of his chest. What passes between them instead is relief. Dog-eared and weary but relief all the same. She smiles gratefully and he offers her his hand. When she takes it they hold each other for just a fraction longer than is necessary. She leans against his chest when he pulls her to her feet, her head resting on his shoulder, and that's all the comfort she'll let him give.

"Did you know you're bleeding?" she asks, her voice muffled against his jacket.

"I am?" he asks and she laughs at his surprise.

"You didn't think you'd walk away from that _entirely_ unscathed did you?" Madeline questions him, looking up into his face and he's reassured by her amusement. "Your ego never ceases to amaze me."

"I'm glad I could be of some service," he answers as a grin spreads across his face. "But this doesn't solve the issue of the fact that I'm bleeding and you still haven't told me where."

"Back of your shoulder," she tells him, the smile sliding off her face as she turns him around to get a closer look. Now he's aware of it he can feel the dull, throbbing ache of the muscle. There's a part of him that wishes she hadn't said anything about it at all. Staring at the dark shadows of the trees all around he can feel her gently peel away the torn fabric. Her fingers brush lightly across his skin, butterfly light, to probe around the wound. "I think you'll live," she proclaims and starts to dress it. "Looks like you just got caught by a piece of shrapnel."

"Oh good," he says with half-hearted humour. "I'd hate to think someone had been shooting at me."

"Shot in the back?" Madeline interjects as she finishes up and they collect up their meagre things. "Not exactly your style, Paul."

"No," he admits with a shrug and slips his arm around her waist again. She lays hers across his shoulders and he holds her hand in his own as they start off. They walk in silence for a while longer, indebted to the full moon overhead. His voice is soft and low when he adds, "But it is Section's."

-- --

"How did you know it was me?" he asks suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled over them. She doesn't answer right away and as the seconds tick by he starts to wonder if she's going to answer him at all.

"I'd know you anywhere."

He's taken back by the admission, wondering exactly what she means. It could just be that she means she recognises his walk or the way he stands. But even if that is all then it means she's taken the time to observe those things. That she's watched him. That she's noticed him. He clenches his jaw and forces his attention back to watching the ground beneath their feet. There's no room for hope in Section.

-- --

"Italian."

"Absolutely," he agrees with a nod.

"Hmm, all right," she says and thinks for a minute. "Favourite city?"

"Florence. Definitely Florence," he says with assurance and steadies her when she slips on a fallen branch. She smiles her thanks and laughs lightly at the natural progression of the conversation. It's such a stupid game to play but her honesty is refreshing and quid pro quo keeps them both focussed. Keeps them thinking and not dwelling on the fact that they've been walking for an hour and that everyone else is dead.

"What about you?"

"I don't have one," she tells him and for a moment he wonders if she's lying. "Every city is different. Unique. But the people are the same. It doesn't matter where you go, the people are always the same."

"That's a little cynical isn't it?"

"Maybe, but it's true all the same."

-- --

They've lapsed into silence again. He isn't sure when it'd happened exactly, but after walking for an hour and a half they'd stopped to rest. With Madeline's leg wound it was slow going but they'd put a fair bit of distance between them and the warehouse. Paul sits down with a sigh and leans his head against a tree. He's not slept in nearly thirty hours and it's starting to catch up with him. Eyes closed, he blindly pads down his pockets and pulls out his cigarettes and lighter with another sigh.

"Those things will kill you," Madeline points out as she watches him light one and hide the packet away again.

"In all honesty, I think they'll be the last thing to get me."

There's a pause as though she's thinking about something, but he doesn't interrupt. In his head he's doing the math, trying to work out how much further they've got to travel. How long it should take them. Where the hell they are at the moment.

"Section probably thinks we're already dead."

Another pause and he dares to open his eyes. "Probably."

Neither of them says it but even so he's fairly certain she's thinking the exact same thing. If Section thought they were dead they wouldn't come looking. They wouldn't be missed. They could go almost anywhere and as long as they stayed beneath the radar they'd be free to do what they wanted. They could plausibly do anything.

They'd be free.

She holds his gaze but the light in her eyes fades. He can't read her, not in the dark and at a distance. So he climbs to his feet and crosses over to sit back on his heels beside her. His hands rest uselessly between his knees and he struggles with the words he knows he should say. Before he can speak though she reaches out and lays her hand on his knee.

"It's your call," she says solemnly. "I'm in it with you. Either way."

"We could escape," he says futilely, the words voicing themselves on his traumatised tongue.

"We could."

"Together?"

"We're stronger as a team," she says and then perhaps because she's seen the hurt in his expression she adds, "Yes. Together."

The temptation to suddenly leap up and run away with her is overwhelming. Crippling. For a minute he can't think of anything else other than the half-imagined dream of them both sitting on a beach somewhere in the sun. Sipping margaritas and walking in the surf as the sun sets. Idiotic, romantic notions. Ones Madeline would never approve of. Yet in that moment he wants nothing more in the whole world. He can taste their freedom. Freedom together.

"There's just one thing," Madeline says and his racing heart grinds to a halt.

"Just one?" He grinds the question out between suddenly clenched jaws. He should have expected her to spot what he hadn't. Should have known that she'd keep her head when he was ready to jump in headlong.

"It's all a little too neat, don't you think?" she asks and her fingers tighten around his leg as though she's trying to force him to focus. "Adrian wrote that profile herself and we're the only two to make it out alive? Out of everyone in that building? The whole mission was flawed from the beginning. Whether it was faulty intel or the profile itself. Not to mention that the Comm's link is mysteriously down. What if Section knows we're not dead?"

"You think it was all intentional," he asks her, but he already knows the answer. Of course they could be reading too much into the situation now. Paranoia creeping in where fear of Section reprisal dwelt. But what if they weren't? Was it worth the risk? They wouldn't even make it out of the country if it was all some elaborate test set up by Adrian.

"Either way," she says again. "I'm with you."

Deep in thought, he finds himself pacing between the trees, a fresh cigarette hanging from his lips as he tries to reach a decision. Walter calls him the Golden Boy of Section, playing on the fact that Adrian makes no attempt to conceal the fact that he is the front runner to be her successor. If that is really true, then Madeline's theory makes even more sense in his mind's eye. Adrian is testing him. His loyalty to Section. To her. Her wrath if he runs would be terrible and swift, but it's what she would do to Madeline if she ran with him that he fears the most.

"We've got to go back," he declares, stopping dead in his tracks. "It's not worth the risk. We've got to go back."

For a split second he thinks he can see disappointment in her expression before she smothers it. She nods and holds out her hand to him instead. He pulls her easily to her feet and for a moment they both stand perfectly still.

"Promise me one thing?" she asks as her palm comes to rest against his chest.

He risks repeating himself, but this time the words come out in a breathless hush, "Just one?"

"One day," she begins with a smile, "We _will_ escape. It will take time and planning. I know that. But I'm very patient and I can wait. But you have to promise me right now that there will be a time when we will walk away. I have to know that Section won't rule my life forever. If not..."

"If not you won't go back," he finishes for her. She simply nods, her expression flawlessly neutral. And so he finds himself nodding in agreement even before he's thought it through because the idea of her walking off into a trap, even though they know it's a trap, is just too painful to even think about.

"I promise," Paul responds before reaching down to take her hand and raise it to his lips. When he lets go he offers her his arm instead and she smiles almost warmly as she takes it. Arm in arm they start the walk back to Section, comforted by the knowledge that one day they'd be escaping in just the same way.

- fin -


End file.
